I heard plural music at different places, and I still remember that concert that happened just here, at the school. I was then one of the happy few.

The minstrel was a Russian poet who started to sing just for friends, in a time when living and singing were difficult. His tunes talked about the Arbat, about soldiers coming from war, about Pushkin and Villon, about a little girl that cries for her balloon, about three sisters whose names were Vera (Faith), Nadezhda (Hope) and Liubov (Love). People liked them, and he became popular all along the country, even abroad.

He appeared on the stage - an old man, tall and slim. First, he spoke to the public about his work, family and homeland, with an elegant mixture of fine irony and inner sadness. Then, taking a Spanish guitar, he said this would be his last concert, and started to sing or, better, to recite those old songs, full of bravure and beauty.